by Turk Pipkin
During the trip, I kept thinking about how Hogan was famed during his years on Tour for being a very quiet man. Several golfers reported that the only two words Hogan said during an entire round were while putting, and those of course were: “You’re away.”
Having been wined and dined the evening before by the potential producer and director of the commercial (both of whom needed the job as much as I did), I was convinced that my idea was flawless. “Nobel and Pulitzer prize material” was how they put it.
Still, the idea of meeting Hogan terrified me, and I walked into the Hogan complex with no more confidence than I had possessed at age thirteen when I walked into my first office building to see March. Again I was ushered down a hallway lined with golf photos—none featuring horses, I was disappointed to note—and steered through an imposing door to meet the man himself. If my mouth hadn’t been so dry, I’d have peed my pants.
I sat down across from his desk, mesmerized by his lined face, reflective of a life’s dedication to a single passion. I could see his eyes, flecked with the various victories and defeats of his life in golf. And it seemed to me that the darkness around them was just the shadow of the Greyhound bus that smashed head-on into his car on a lonely West Texas highway so many years before, mangling his body and threatening his ability either to play golf or to ever walk again. And the eyelids, blinking just a little more often than you’d expect, seemed no more than the constant memory of the failed nerve yips that had rendered him unable to putt even two-footers. And yet he had risen above it all, as a champion golfer, as one of the most respected names in the history of the game, and as the designer and manufacturer of a line of golf equipment that his customers have been known to take to their graves.
Suddenly I realized my idea was all wrong. I was a fool for thinking golf clubs were just another interchangeable product like underarm deodorant or Odor Eaters for shoes. Golf isn’t sex. Golf is passion, the passion of graceful fools and awkward poets and those who refuse to lay down forever without first dreaming of fleeting perfection. I cleared my throat loudly and, failing to hack up any kind of alternate plan, said nothing.
Hogan looked me up and down, didn’t seem too impressed by what he saw, and uttered two words: “You’re away.”
I think he was kidding me, but I gathered that it was my time to pitch. I bit my lip and told him that the idea I’d tossed at the agency was the infantile fantasy of a man overcome by temporary insanity, that it had absolutely nothing to do with his company, and could have been used to sell anything from pork rinds to porch swings. Then I hung my head in shame that I’d wasted his time.
This increased Mr. Hogan’s word usage to three. “Good for you.”
We spent the rest of the day touring his operation, watching the hand-lathing of persimmon clubheads, the hosels being readied for the insertion of high-tech shafts, and finally the finished clubs coming off the line. We passed the golden-lit hours of the early evening reviewing scrapbooks in the library that practically breathed of his many Tour wins, especially the near Grand Slam of 1953 when the British Open, U.S. Open, and Masters all fell to the attack of his relentless course management, and only the PGA escaped the grasp of his genius.
That night I awoke in a start, picked up a pen and paper from beside the hotel bed, and hurriedly scribbled down the dream that had been playing in a loop inside my head.
Traveling shot: The camera flies lovingly over the misty moors of Scotland. A bagpiper is seen in the distance. We hear the emotional lilting strains of “Amazing Grace.” As the camera glides over a little hillock we see two men alone in an expanse of gorse and green. Close-up: A young Scotsman of the 1930s is dressed in the traditional golfing plus-fours of his day. He makes a breathtaking pass at his ball. Backlit by the shimmering waters of the Firth of Forth, the ball soars above the mist and bounds close to the hole on the seventh green at St. Andrews.
Near the Scottish golfer in the fairway is the young Ben Hogan, the initials BH on his sweater. He selects a club and swings crisply. The ball sails low and draws in on the flag, landing short and bounding tight inside his opponent’s ball. Close-up: The young Scot extends a hand of congratulation to the young Texan. Both smile. Cut to: company logo: “Hogan—Timeless Perfection.”
That’s it. No babes, no bouncing breasts, no frenzied fans, no holes-in-one. We made the spot. It ran for sixty seconds instead of thirty, and sales went up sixteen percent in one month. I hoped Mr. Hogan would call to say “Good work,” but he never did.
* * *
As Sandy strode down the eighth fairway to remove his ball from the hole, he might have been twenty-year-old amateur golfer and former caddie Francis Ouimet who defeated British pros Harry Vardon and Ted Ray in a play-off for the 1913 U.S. Open. Or Bobby Jones triumphantly strolling down the home hole at the Old Course in St. Andrews, moments before being swarmed by thousands of Scottish fans upon winning his second British Open in 1927. He could even have been his own hero, Ben Hogan, winning the 1950 U.S. Open only a year after his bus accident, when the doctors said he’d never play again. Or he might have been a thousand other triumphant golfers on a thousand other splendorous days. For Sandy was living the supreme moment of the game—temporarily victorious before facing the next hole, or the next match, or the next tournament.
Had Sandy not been dressed as a golfer, I could just as easily have seen Babe Ruth rounding the bases in the 1926 World Series after pointing over the center-field wall, claiming in advance one of his 714 major league home runs. This one was for an eleven-year-old fan, the critically ill Johnny Sylvester, who despite the doctor’s prognosis recovered and lived to return the favor years later by holding the great one’s hand on Ruth’s own deathbed. Or he might have been Jesse Owens climbing the steps of glory again and again, weighted by Olympic gold and lightened by the proof of his accomplishments in Nazi Berlin. But Sandy Bates was my friend and teacher and a hero who, like all heroes, would be remembered in some quarter of heaven for his fleeting but indelible moment of glory while tromping his own hallowed grounds.
Stepping across the green without putter or hesitation, Sandy removed the flag, bent so that his hand disappeared into the earth, and picked the magic ball out of the hole. We watched him silently: partners, opponents, spectator and judge, and deep in our own hearts, each of us was extremely jealous.
37
Whether you play nine, eighteen or twenty-seven holes, a golf course needs a tough finishing hole to weed out the losers. That’s especially true for a nine-hole course where you may play the ninth from one to five times a day, depending on how die-hard a golfer you are. On a hot day, or when you’re just sneaking in a little practice round before work, you may be quitting after playing only nine. If you’ve escaped more worldly worries, you may be passing number nine every couple of hours until it gets too dark to find your ball. You can play the first nine from the white tees, the second from the blues, and the third from the tips. If you’re a big enough golf-nut to go for thirty-six or forty-five holes, you can always experiment with a nine-hole scramble or a one-club competition (a five-iron is a good choice).
Perhaps to discourage too much of this repetitive, course-crowding play, the Pedernales layout took the concept of a tough finishing hole one step further. So difficult was number nine that you’d be happy just to have survived the hole and delighted to put the clubs back in your trunk. From the back tees, it was four hundred and twenty-five yards long, with a big dogleg to the left, and a long iron from the fairway to a green elevated almost to heaven. The hole couldn’t have been better suited for deciding a big match.
Pumped with adrenaline and covered with goose bumps at having just accomplished the ultimate feat in golf, Sandy stepped quickly to the tee. Taking the club back faster than usual, he snap-hooked his tee shot deep into the left rough. We were stunned. With the match even and the momentum in his favor, he’d choked like a rookie.
“Sorry, March,” Sandy mumbled as he slunk back.
While
Sandy hit, March had rested his hand—and most of his weight—somewhat affectionately on my shoulder. Though their team’s outlook had recovered somewhat (till now), March hadn’t recovered at all. His color had returned, but only in splotches, and he’d hit just one shot since the fisticuffs with Roscoe, and it hadn’t been for beans. Now the pressure was weighing heavily on him. It took him a long time to get his tee into the ground, and as he prepared to swing, the ball fell off the tee. He bent to replace it, then backed away taking short, shallow breaths, as if he could cool himself like a panting hound.
“Roscoe,” he gasped. “You hit. I got to catch my breath.”
Roscoe didn’t challenge the request, didn’t call for a ruling about hitting in turn, didn’t make a smart-ass remark. He just stepped up and hit his shot. It was the only nice thing I ever saw him do.
“Beast,” Roscoe said to the big man. “Now you forget about that lucky hole-in-one thing and hit it good.”
“Hole-in-one?” Beast asked as if he hadn’t seen it. “Shit, that’s old news, just like that birdie I made on seven. It don’t matter anymore. The guys that win here take home the big bucks and everybody else sucks on the hind teat.”
Why Beast had started with any woods at all was a mystery to me. He sure didn’t need them. His one-iron shot was as certain as the day and just as long, sending the ball maybe two hundred and forty yards as the crow flies. What with cutting forty yards off the corner, his ball was soon nestled tight against the bottom of the hill, looking directly up at the green.
Now more than ever, it was up to March. Jewel gave him her blessing in the form of a kiss on his cheek. Then he looked at me for a long time, as if he was trying to memorize my face. With a final wink he stepped back onto the tee.
He had no energy for a practice swing or even for a simple waggle of the clubhead. Though he was saving all his available energy for the task at hand, it was easy to see that the well had gone dry. Shakily, he started the clubhead back, but already he was sinking, calling for his medicine as he hit the ground.
I ran to Roscoe’s cart and reached for the pocket on March’s bag where I’d put the medicine. The zipper was open partway but I didn’t think anything of it; I just yanked it the rest of the way down and started pulling stuff out: a white handkerchief, an “Old Timer” pocket knife, rusted spare cleats, pencils … and nothing else. The medicine wasn’t there.
“Billy!” called Jewel. “Hurry! Please hurry!”
Frantically I searched again through the stuff I’d dumped out, through the empty pocket, and through the other pockets too. There was no medicine.
“It’s not here!” I cried. “It’s not in the pocket where I put it!”
Sandy shoved me aside and began to search himself. That’s when it dawned on me about the zipper being down. I wouldn’t have done that, would I? Left the zipper down and let March’s medicine bounce out?
God, please! Please don’t tell me I’ve lost March’s medicine.
I ran to him to see if he was better, but the fact was, he really didn’t need the medicine at all. Not anymore. His head was in Jewel’s lap and she was fanning his face, trying to give him a little air. He held up his hand toward me and I put mine in his. His palm felt tough and wonderful, but I knew that he was dying, and I began to cry.
“The pills aren’t there,” I told him, trying to hold back my sobs.
The last trump had been played and the look on March’s face was wry. Lifting up his head, he gazed to the distant hills, then back to me.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a nice spot to die.”
I remember he told me I shouldn’t cry.
Roscoe hobbled over and looked down at his former partner.
“Looks like you drilled your last hole, March. Well, least you got clean living on your side.”
March removed his right hand from mine and held it slowly out to Roscoe. They shook, despite everything, companions in the end. Then March pulled me toward him. He couldn’t talk so well, but he had a big smile on his face because Jewel’s tears were streaming off her cheeks and falling onto him like a small rainstorm. He pulled me down close, inches from his lips, and whispered something into my ear, whispered so softly that I couldn’t even tell for certain what he said. It was two words, I thought: “Last green.”
Just then Fromholz returned with some water and pulled me away.
I stepped back in shock. Last green? Of course it’s the last green. What was that supposed to mean? His last green? Our last green? March was dying, Sandy was losing, and I was more confused than ever.
My hand was warm where March had held it. I thrust it into my pocket and found my magic moon rock waiting for me there. “All you have to do is wish,” March had told me. I grasped the rock and squeezed with all my might, wishing my heart out: “Don’t die! Don’t die, March! Please don’t die!”
March opened his eyes again and found the strength to speak.
“Jewel, you were the best thing in my life. I’m sorry I let you down.”
Then his eyes closed slowly. Jewel looked up at us accusingly.
“Don’t die!” I wished. “March, please don’t die.”
But it wasn’t enough.
After a moment, Fromholz knelt down beside the lost lovers and very professionally put a finger to a vein behind March’s ear.
“Well, fellas,” he told us. “Ol’ March here is just deader’n hell.”
My breath left me in a single rush. Unable to think or even see, I took the moon rock out of my pocket and, through my tears, blindly tried to focus on it. The rock was a fraud, a phony, a false and hateful kind of worthless trickery that pretended responsibility for Sandy’s ace, and then just as inertly, allowed March to die. It was fake magic, just like March was a fake father and an even bigger fake of a grandfather: now you see him; now you don’t! I hurled the heavy rock off the hilltop as hard as I could. It sailed with a sudden breeze and far from my sight it struck the earth for the second time in a millennium.
Jewel was still kneeling at March’s side, singing some little Mexican song for him. Roscoe leaned down and took her arm lightly.
“Come on, Jewel, let’s go. There’s nothing you can do now.”
Jewel looked up at him coldly. “Roscoe Fowler, if I ever see you again,” she hissed, “I’ll cut out your heart with a rusty letter opener and serve it to you with a side of human decency! Now get away from me!”
Roscoe pulled back and walked toward his cart. “Crazy bitch!” he muttered.
I pulled the driver from March’s hands, ready to plant it in the soft spot in the back of Roscoe’s skull, but Sandy stopped me.
“Let’s finish the match,” he said. “That’s what March would have wanted.”
The driver was in my hands and March’s ball was still on the tee as Roscoe, Beast and Sandy started down the fairway. I aimed over their heads and struck the ball a mighty blow. It soared into the sky, and as it started to fall, I thought I saw some glimmer of light, some essence of March’s heart and soul, break away and fly up to heaven.
* * *
Like most boys, I once had a dog; the gentlest little half golden retriever-half Border collie you could ever imagine. She wasn’t quite as dumb or stick crazy as most retrievers, and she’d missed out on some of her Border collie work ethic, but she loved to curl back her lips and nip at my heels as if I were a sheep out of line. She also loved to fetch my chip shots and drop them right where I could hit them again, without having to adjust my stance forward or back, and then she’d chase the ball again. A dedicated retriever of golf balls is one that doesn’t mind if you blade it thin, shank it thick, or top it dumb, but brings them all back along with the occasional good shots.
One day the dreaded “S” word reared its ugly head and I shanked a little wedge shot that skidded across the practice green at Santa Fe Park and bounced out onto Beauregard Avenue. I yelled for her to stop, but a golden always gets her ball.
I don’t remember the car that hit
her or the driver who stopped to try to help. I just remember that sweet, beautiful dog as she came limping and dragging back toward me in horrid shock: screaming for me to make it better, crying for me to stop the pain, howling in lack of understanding of what had happened. How could life have been so wonderful one minute, chasing balls for her buddy, and so filled with pain the next?
It seemed to take her a long time to die. I buried her in the unkempt edges of the park, down by the river where she once caught a rabbit and carried it proudly back to show me. It was the only time I ever hit her—how dare she kill such a little creature! When I struck her she dropped the rabbit, and she’d been holding it so gently in her teeth that the bunny ran away unharmed. I’ve never quit regretting hitting that dog, not yet anyway. And the thing it taught me is that regret has the ability to change the past not one iota.
“A high rate of regret,” March had told me.
What I gathered he meant was that his field was full, there was no more fertile imagination in which to sow weeds and stickers, only a field too overgrown to plow. And now March would have to plow no more. From here on in it would be nothing but smooth fairways and fast greens, and good bounces, an unbroken string of pars and birdies, and a very low rate of regret.
38
From that last, lonely fairway I looked back over my shoulder and saw that Jewel was still kneeling next to March. Her hair was in disarray, the careful bun fallen and her tresses down about her face like a veil. It was hot out in the sun and she had the two of them in the shade of her little parasol.
She’ll be okay, I thought. We’ll leave her alone while we finish, and then go back to help.
Between the tee and the fairway I’d almost cried out in despair at the thought that my carelessness might have killed March. I remembered putting the medicine in the pocket of the bag and I thought I remembered zipping it up, but there was no sound to go with the memory of the zipper closing. We’d moved March’s bag to Roscoe’s cart just after that. Maybe the medicine fell out when the bag was tipped.…
